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Better Left for Dead
DHQ Repair Bay This is an L-shaped room, stocked with plenty of repair supplies. Several repair tables line the front portion of the room, shining antiseptically clean. Every shining tool and piece of equipment is stored neatly in place...including several unusual and complex monitor machines which seem to have been built by hand. The medic in charge here must be a meticulous neat-freak who is very serious about his job. A dark, charred spot marks the floor in the rear of the room. Contents: Stalker Obvious exits: Southwest Carjack has arrived. Carjack strides in looking for someone to fix. Or break. Catechism is still a mess, since she hasn't been allowed to have proper repairs, as a punishment for her failure to courier that datastick properly. It's been weeks now. She knows that Carjack's been assigned to remake her into... something, using that experimental Triple-Changer transformation cog they nicked off the Quintessons. Catechism's mostly been cooped up in the Charr Repair Bay, which is horrendously out of the way, so she's been going stir crazy. No visitors, since no one wants to be seen with such a disgraceful failure. Right now, she's gotten one of her hands free from the medical berth restraints, by stripping the plating off, and she is trying to work a little C4 into the other restraint. Soon, the gumby medic, Stalker, will notice what she's up to and lock her up again. It's a frustrating cycle. Or there may be other things to worry about than annoying the standby tech for the umpteenthity time on the air. The doors to the Char Medbay swing open, thudding hard against the walls behind them... Though Carjack's near dynamic entry is somewhat ruined when he slumps against the doorframe. "Ugh! No wonder Scrapper has squirreled himself up somewhere obscure. This workload has me dragging my tailgate to the point it's wore to the struts. Trypticon this, the Shark that." He throws his hands into the air as he finally stomps into the room proper. "And now THUNDERWING on top of it all! There's so much slag hitting the fanbelts that you need a bulldozer to get through... Oh, that's right, SCRAPPER has BONECRUSHER with him!... at least they finally sent Long Haul back." He tromps right past Catechism's table towards the workbench he's been keeping the various stuff for her 'upgrade' experiment. ... Then walks back a few moments later to grab the C4 out of the restraints. "Tch! If you were this resourceful about getting out of trouble you wouldn't be strapped to this table in the first place!" She's not really the one he's mad at, mind you. But she's a somewhat convenient source of venting frustration at the moment. Catechism glares as Carjack confiscates her C4, and she exclaims, "Hey!" She listens along to his rant, but strapped down to a table on Charr is not a good way to stay current on recent news. The ex-Seeker points out, "Sounds to me like a good time to have more soldiers on the field and not, you know, stuck to a table, but that's just me. I'm obviously biased." She really is. "With Thunderwing stealing them from under our nosecones? No shit." Then Carjack huffs, leaning on the edge of the table. "Look, I'm sorry this is taking as long as it is." It's still his usual snarky tone, but one can detect a hint of scenerity in it, too. "After Trypticon getting blasted into space and losing Mexico, it's been a big downhill sli -- oh frak, I'll tell you about it as we work." He trudges back to his workstation, slapping his visor down as he does so. A few moments later the interchanging sound of hammer and welding arcs can be heard coming from that direction. "I wasn't on the frontlines the last time Thunderwing was around.. but even then, heard he does some really weirdass shit." You can tell he's been spending more time on Earth, with their cusses slipping into his language programming without even really noticing it. Catechism looks at Carjack warily. Sincerity is a very, very uncommon thing among Decepticons. She can't but help feel there are some wires attached, here. Then again, she's strapped down to a table. Beggars can't be choosers, and lab rats especially can't be choosers. Catechism blurts, "We lost Mexico? /Thunderwing/?" She was very briefly there for the last of that business, and a bad business it was. She falls silent for a moment, and she asks, "Look, Doc, just tell me what I need to do to get /out/ of here. Wasting away on a table is no fate for an Imperial soldier." Wires that were already attatched when Cyclonus stuck them together... though to be honest its not only his own aft he's trying to save here. A better soldier means a better Empire, after all. "No, it's not." There's a thud just outside of her periperal vision as he sets a box of stuff down on a tool cart, next to the experimental cog that's been sitting for weeks waiting to be used. "And it's not going to be for much longer." He fully steps into view, welder in one hand and some replacement plates... that don't look entirely like jet fuselage parts... in the other. "Stalker!", he pelts at the gumbie. "Medical bay lockdown. No questions, hold my calls lest they're from Cyclonus or Lord Galvatron himself." He pauses to jerk his head forward and slide his work visor back down over his face again. "The Doctor has a patient to attend to." Then gets to work on finally finishing the other structural repairs first. Carjack says, "Stalker! Medical bay lockdown. No questions, hold my calls lest they're from Cyclonus or Lord Galvatron himself." There's a pause as the Char medbay is put into secure containment. "The Doctor has a patient to attend to." Tentakil says, "Oooh soounds like someone needs a hug!" Catechism now regards the plates warily. She knows that's an untried Triple-Changer cog Carjack's going to be testing in her, but what she's going to be when Carjack's done here, she's not sure. Catechism observes hesitantly, "Those don't look like tank parts. That's, uhm, how science goes, isn't it? You try to get replicable results, to make sure the first try wasn't a fluke?" Straxus, please don't let Carjack rebuild her into something dumb, like a train or a tanker-truck! At least being like Blitzwing would be liveable. Carjack turns his head to look at her a bit as he reachs for more parts... and sincere or not before, he's got that slightly unhinged 'mad doctor at work' grin that's more normal for him curling one side of his mouth. "No, my dear. Production is about getting replicable, reproducable results. -Science- is about finding the new ways to make the results better." Sparks hiss and fly as he goes between getting replacement parts and putting them in place.. or just shoving them into vehicle mode sections of subspace storage... "Besides, why would I want to make you into something we already know how to." He stops, lifting a hand to rub his chin for a moment. "I did consider at a point a helicopter... But you're already a jet. Two different airframe forms? That's just redundant." He goes back to work, making progress in the course of the conversation. "Some things will need to wait until we find out if this works... I suppose I -could- give you an animal form like the Horrorcons, if you rather, hmmmm?" Okay, now he's just messing with her for his own amusement. You hope. Catechism has had a lifetime to get used to quality Decepticon medical care. If the medic isn't reaching for a chainsaw and cackling, it's because he's reaching for a lighter and rusty scalpel instead. So what flavor of schadenfreude is on the menu today? Catechism sputters, "You don't /know/ what you're making me into? And are you saying we could already mass-produce Blitzwing if we wanted to?" That seems like a pretty good idea to her, to be honest. Then he proposes making her a Horrorcon. One is a filthy ape and the other is a filthy dinosaur. "...are the hygiene problems congenital?" Carjack oohs. "Oh, no, -I- know. Generally, at least... but where's the surprise if you know?" He holds up a hand and wobbles it a bit. "The -potential- is there, though I meant moreso the fact that we already know how to turn Decepticons into jets and tanks, putting the two together isn't hard... Though. Mass producing is kinda why Sharkticons are -stupid-... Do we really want stupid Blitzwing's running around, charging over everyone?" He shrugs as he steps over to parts cart, picking up the cog to inspect it, just to make sure nothing has happened to it over the last few weeks. By this point, Catechism has been mostly put back together... though she can probably feel odd parts here and there that aren't familiar, but can't quite tell -just- what they are, either.... Catechism struggles with her bonds, greatly desiring to smack Carjack and mightily frustrated that she cannot. She settles for snapping, "Hey transmission-for-processors, /Seekers/ are mass-produced! They're not /all/ stupid." One would never know it, looking at Ramjet, who hits things with his head, or Backfire, who somehow got his energon turned a weird colour, but some Seekers really are quite bright! Like Dirge. Who is more gloomy than bright, really. Catechism squirms a bit, having the unsettling feeling of having no idea what she even is. It's disturbing on the level of her deepest code. Carjack throws his head back with a laugh as she points that out. ""Aren't you glad you won't have to associate with being considered one of them anymore, too?" Oh look, she's squirming and realizing the terror that she's entirely at his whimsy at the moment, how cute. He loves when they do that... fortunately he is focused on his work enough to only savor it for a few seconds before getting back to the task. Which involves pulling open her front torso armor, and after a bit of unplugging connectors and loosening fasteners, pulls out her old transformation cog. "Won't be needing this anymore," flings it over his shoulder without a care as to where it lands. "This is the now or never point... fortunately that -thing- they were working on was about the same size... but it's much better to be used in one of our own." He pushes the cog into place, actually being surprisingly gentle with it considering it's such a delicate thing, and starts hooking up the various other tidbits of indescribably transformation technology to the apparatus surrounding it. "There." He slaps her chestplate shut like it was the hood of a cae, then takes a few steps back. "Medical computer, release patient bonds and override cognitive transformational control; initiate tritary mode conversion sequence." He wrings his hands together in anticipation. Catechism frowns at Carjack, and she asks, "Do you /really/ look down on Seekers for being mass-produced? They're the spinal strut of the Empire, it's life's fuel. If the Autobots ever invented a Seeker-destroying virus, the Empire would be in dire straits!" Luckily, it is much more likely that the Decepticon would develop a car-destroying virus than the other way around. When Carjack pulls out her transformation cog, she has a crashing moment where her world just shatters - she isn't a Transformer at all anymore! Then, as soon as the new one is spliced in, the world shifts. Before the Decepticon on the table can get her bearings, the computer's forcing her, against her will, to run through the complete conversion sequence. She shifts into a jet, and that's familiar enough, that still works, but there's something else here, and the computer doesn't seem content to leave it at that... Catechism transforms to her jet mode, which is quite astoundingly simple for the coneheaded model that she is. "Actually, no, I don't," Carjack replies, picking up the remote hand unit to watch assorted diagnostic readouts.. though he's paying more attention to watching her and her transformation (hopefully transformations). His usual lopsided grin returns along with the anticipation. "You're just all fun to pick on about it, because you all take it so slagging seriously." He waits for the computer to run its calibrations and continue... The Decepticon on the table is feeling, at the moment, really, really sick, like she did some stretches before running some combat drills, stretched too far, sprained something, and ended upside-down on her head with a concussion. The experimental Triple-Changer cog twists within her, turning and latching to unfamiliar parts in yet stranger ways. It hurts a bit, as parts pull inwards, and she's seeing stars as one set of optics is retracted, folded under new panels and another set of optics comes online. She thinks this is done, for a moment, but what /is/ this? She feels wheels, but not three wheels, like landing gear. There's four wheels, undercarriage slung lower to the ground than she's used to, front-facing, front-mounted optics. What /is/ this? This is... ...a car? "Yes.. Yes!" Carjack howls with pleased laughter. "It worked! Took some Cybertronian fixing, but that cog worked!" Broad feet clank as he walks around the table to admire his handiwork. "See? Now tunnels and ground missions will be no problem for you. Not only will you be able to serve the Empire better, but in more ways than ever!" He finally comes around to the front, were she can 'see'. It's a little hard to explain how sensory imput works from vehicular modes. At least they don't have something weird like eyes in the headlights. That'd just be bizarre. He waggles a finger at her, clearly amused. "And before you start to whine my dear, it is not just -any- old car. Please. As a ground pounder and mechanic myself I wouldn't do -that- to someone that has, other than a couple of recent screw-ups, a rather impressive service record." The Doctor's not lying - it /is/ a very nice car. It is, in fact, a Lamborghini Gallardo, kitted out in the colours of the Italian Police, crisp, cool white and light blue. There's even a flasherbar and sirens up top. Fumbling to find the vocoder in this mode, she accidentally sets the siren off, wailing, and the lights come on, too, whirling and flashing. They go on for a good long while until she figures out how to shut them off. Then, the car horn goes off, and she starts to wonder if maybe it would have been better to have died in battle than return to this. Carjack is trying -hard- to not laugh again as she mentally fumbles about the new form, but a snicker still escapes none the less. "Ahahahaha!" Okay, it's more of a cackle. He's a mad doctor, he's suppose to cackle. He leans on the edge of the table on his elbow to keep from falling over. "By Straxus, that's just the sort of a mood lightener I needed after the last several weeks!" A bit more snickering follows, before he finally pushes himself upright again and walks back to the work bench. "Okay, now that I've had my amusement... Computer, download the operational softcode for a terrestrial vehicle mode." He disappears behind her to the workbench and starts putting something else together. "Got a few things that need to be in that specific mode, now that we know that it works, to install." The newly-built Gallardo is less-than-pleased by Carjack's snickering, and a few panels unfold on the sides, revealing the built-in FN Minimi 5.56mm Light Machine Guns. They swivel to track Carjack, holding a bead on where he vanished. Her headache just gets worse as new code is injected and she struggles to assimilate it to try to make sense of what's going on with this new mode. She finally manages to speak, her voice flat and uninflected, "Sorry. New mode malfunction." She doesn't mean that at all. Carjack ehehehes. "Don't worry, they're not loaded yet anyways... good you found how to activate them though! Had to make sure you were armed as well as defended." He walks over.. though its not in front of her again. Rather he goes to the back, and opens the trunk. "This vehicle is built primarily for speed and handling, though you do have some light bulletproof plating in places that would be crutial to a passanger due to the nature of the model -- the cab and so forth." He almost climbs into the trunk in the process of installing something. "But no, I am going to make you even -more- useful." He leans back out a moment, wiggling what looks like some sort of think acuator arm with a hose attatchment to test the joint, then reachs back inside the trunk compartment. The machine guns fold back inside, underneath their panels, slinking away as if disappointed. She seriously contemplates just driving off the table to see if that'll make Carjack fall off, but she supposes she's not out of this yet, if he's still installing things. She continues coldly, "An emergency vehicle. You made me an emergency vehicle. Do I look like the kind to rescue those despicable human germs?" Ugh, what is he putting in back there? Why won't this indignity end? "No, I expect you to be fast enough to run any Autobot off the road and blow the everlovin' slag out of them!" There's a bit of a grumble at the emergency vehicle complaint, but we'll get to those. "No, you don't have to save any organic filth. Look at me, I go around -starting- the fires on occassion. But that just brings us to the next point." He climbs down from the table and walks around the side of the table, folding his hands behind his back. "Look at it this way. Where do Autobots like to hide, thinking -they- control the roads? In human cities. What's the best way to get the jump on them? Beat them at their own game! Why do you think Megatron constructed the Stunticons as he did?" There's a pause as he transforms into his own vehicle mode. "Why do you think *I* was reformatted the way I did upon coming to Earth? The humans are ingnorant and blissful in their own little world. They'll give you space just for the form of a symbol of authority, never realizing there is more than meets the eye present!" Carjack hits the ground and folds into a rescue truck. The Gallardo does start thinking and muses, "So I can... pull Autobots over for traffic violations and then transform and clobber them?" She has to admit grudgingly. "That's... not all bad, I guess," but she ruins it with, "Doc, I don't presume to know what Megatron was thinking, ever. That's a bad business to get into, second-guessing High Commanders. Didn't second-guessing Cyclonus get me turned into a slagging /cop car/? And, I dunno, I just figured rescue truck was the most-compatible thing with your body." She pauses. "...please don't tell me this was my 'best match'. I don't care if it was. I don't want to hear it." "Let's just say I could of turned you into -worse- and leave it at that, hmmmm?", Carjack replies as he returns to his own robot mode. As entertained as he is, as it is more or less part of Decepticon medical practice to torment the patient a bit, he doesn't want to turn her off of the idea entirely, or it would be a moot point for the entire rebuild. "Instead, pay attention, you've got one more useful trick up your casing." With one hand he opens his own chest compartment, reaching in with the other to pull out a hose. "In your truck I've installed spare energon tanks. They can be used to boost your own rations.. or more importantly, use the nozzle arm I installed to transfer to others who are running low. You want to impress Lord Galvatron? Just think of how much power that wonderful cannon of his uses when he's starscreaming someone. Speaking of..." He walks over to the side, and jabs the pointed 'nozzle' into one of the seams of Catechism's side, into the fuel lines somewhere beneath. "I need to top off your own systems as it is. It's not as complicated as it might sound, you just jab it into the power lines and squeeze." The emergency response truck opens up into a robot. Combat: Carjack deploys his reserve energon tank. Combat: Carjack runs a diagnostic check on F-35B "Lightning II" Combat: Carjack refuels F-35B "Lightning II" 's energon reserves. The Gallardo does pay close attention, but she is not sure she wants to be Galvatron's mid-battle bartender. She mutters, "Sounds like a good way to get starscreamed myself," then a bit more loudly, "At least, not until I really have the knack of it. But uh, what if I accidentally tear the power lines or something? Or if some of my acid gets in the mix?" She does actually sound genuinely concerned. Tearing a big leaking hole in and dissolving inside out is not something she wants to be doing to her comrades-in-arms. Carjack pulls out once the fuel deposit is finished, letting go of the hose and it retracts automatically back into the tank compartment, which he closes afterwards. "Oh, please. I do this for a living, you think I haven't perfect the delivery utensil to not do so? And no, that's why the 'transfusion' is on a one-way, seperate system. If you use it on yourself it can only go 'in' as it were, so none of your weird acid 'blood' won't contaminate the tanks." He pats the top of the slick forgien sports/copcar's hood. "When they realize you're even more useful now for field support as well as combat, no one is going to remember the one screw-up that got you here." He pauses for a moment. "... You may want to practice driving first though. It is -nothing- like flying." Then cants his head back a bit. "Computer, disengage mode restraints... I'm finished, Catechism. I've provided the resources, its up to you to use them to clear the smudge off your name now." Then takes a step or two back protectively, just in case she transforms and decides to try and wring his neck structure -anyways-. You never know with some Decepticons, especially after they've been experimented on. Combat: Carjack sets his defense level to Guarded. "No cross-contamination chance? Good to know." The Gallardo rises up into robot mode, finding the transformation a little less painful than before, and looks over at Carjack with a rather blank expression, as if he was speaking of someone else. Then, she laughs once, and she corrects, "Contrail. My name is Contrail." She taps the side of her helmet and shrugs, suggesting, "I think that extra code jacked up my BIOS a bit." One hand on her hip, Contrail's expression changes to a cocky smirk, "Oh come on, I can corner at .99 C! Driving will be a /breeze/." Better stock up on extra Gallardo bumpers, Carjack. Carjack scratchs the side of his head. "... I don't recall programming a name change. It has a nice ring to it though." He stops to listen to her for a moment, then just rolls his optics some as he walks back over to his workbench. "Can doesn't necessarily mean knowing how," he replies. (Great, I've created a monster... not that this is a -bad- thing...) Contrail drops back down into her shiny new Gallardo mode and goes tearing off down the hallways, shifting gears up, up, up, until a different set of panels unfold on her sides and out pop some booster rockets, which ignite, sending her screaming down the hallway, until she rapidly meets the end of the hallway with a >scree-bash